(An empty set with a spotlight. A woman in her late twenties enters, stands outside the spotlight. She begins addressing it, as if there were someone standing in it.)
Hi. It’s me.
That’s really lame and I’m sorry. I don’t remember any of this, at least not yet. I’m making it up as I go along.
The question is how to get you to believe me, you know. I’ve been trying to get to you for a long time, thinking about it, not knowing what to say.
You probably remember when you were a child—you must have been five, because it was right after you stopped sharing a room with— (She pauses.) It was right after you stopped sharing a room with Laura. Your sister, Laura. You woke up in the middle of the night because there was a light in your room. It was a bright light and it hovered in the middle of the air. Then it went away, and you thought it was a ghost but Mom told you it was a dream.
That was me. The light, and also the little girl. I’m you from the future. I’ve been trying to reach you.
I guess you know by now why. I couldn’t reach you before, you see. That’s why it was like that. And remember that other time, when you—when we were twelve? At a sleepover, I think. None of the other girls were awake. But even so I couldn’t reach you.
You do remember, don’t you. And you’re remembering last year after that party. That was me too, yeah. I really thought I could reach you then. I thought I’d make it in time.
But I didn’t. You’ve already said it, haven’t you. You’ve just hung up the phone, and you were talking to Laura, and I know what you said. You already want to apologize, but you think you’ll call her in the morning or maybe next week, when you’re less angry.
How do I know? Try to keep up. I know you’re only nineteen but you’re not stupid. I know because I remember.
I can tell you now because it’s too late for you to do anything about it. She’s dead. She’s already dead, but they haven’t found our phone number on her yet. In about half an hour they’ll tell Mom and Mom will tell you. And nothing is the same. Just like the flick of a switch.
She’s already dead, but they haven’t told me yet. You. Us. Whatever. At first I tried to change things, of course, like every idiot in a time travel movie. But I couldn’t get through to you then. I just came and glowed at you. (She laughs.) Ironic. I remember even when I thought it was a ghost I was never scared. I liked the pretty lights. And it was just me, coming to say Laura’s dead and the last thing you said to her, you’ll never forgive yourself for.
(She pauses, as if listening.)
I sort of thought it would be different. I’ve lived with me for ten years. I sort of thought I’d look at you and I’d see… her. The woman who said that stupid, pointless thing to her dead sister, I’d see her and I’d stop being her.
But I’m still her, and so are you, and I wish I hadn’t come now. Look at you, you’re just a kid and you don’t even know you’ve ruined your life.
(She walks to the other side of the spotlight, still staying in the dark.)
I can’t fix it in the future and I can’t fix it in the past. What am I supposed to do? She’s dead! How do I make it right?
(She pauses for a long time, listening as if her question is being answered. Then she falls to her knees.)
Just what I was hoping not to hear, thanks.
I want it to be about what I can do! I want her to forgive me because I deserve it, because I’m an amazing sister and she loves me and I don’t deserve for anyone to be mad at me.
But I can’t do anything. There’s literally nothing.
I guess this means I won’t be haunted anymore, eh? No more shiny lights.
(She pitches forward, facedown, into the circle of the spotlight. She cushions her face with her hands if necessary, but the position doesn’t look comfortable. Muffled by the floor, she says:)
Yes. I accept forgiveness.
(She begins to stand up within the circle of light.)
And I guess that means I have to forgive myself, too.
(On her knees in the light:)
I forgive you, self. Try to forgive yourself, eh? Even if it takes ten years?
You have to live with yourself.